


Organized Lightning 1/1

by hnsnrachel



Series: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin [4]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hnsnrachel/pseuds/hnsnrachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Everyone needs a little positive reinforcement sometimes.  Or is that negative reinforcement?   Sequel to <a href="http://hnsnrachel.dreamwidth.org/97481.html">Reason of Man</a>.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Organized Lightning 1/1

**Author's Note:**

> For electricity on my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. [Card here](http://hnsnrachel.dreamwidth.org/81250.html?#cutid1) (all completed squares link to the relevant story). Unbetad.  Apparently, in my head, Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin are incredibly kinky.  Who knew?  Second verse, same as the first - Palin's POV, so there's some very deliberate incorrect verbiage and maybe a few insane segues in this one.  Does four of these stories mean it's now a problem? 

Organized Lightning 1/1

Begging isn’t something I’m used to. Truth be told, I’ve always been the one who’s being begged. The star basketball player with eyes only for the self-sufficing boy from the Alaskan wilderness, despite the hockey players who fought for my attention. The beauty queen that every man wanted but only one man could have. But with Hillary above me, around me, filling my senses, I wouldn’t put anything beyond myself. I want her inside me with an urgency I can’t explain.

  
I moan as she secures a clamp around the pointed tip of one of my breasts, loosening a ribbon of pained arousal that threads through me like the lava that issues from the peaks of the volcanoes of my beloved homeland.

“Gotcha,” she whispers against my lips, stealing my own phrase, tantalizing close, yet not close enough. I want her lips on mine, but I’ve yet to feel them tonight, my blonde tormentor darting out of reach every time I got near, pushing me down to the bed of her luxury suite, tying me to steel bedposts after stripping me bare.

I struggle against the bonds that hold me, tension in my muscles that long for sweet release. It’s not that my bondage is beyond my consent; truth is, I gave my body over to her months ago and she has me strung even when she’s continents away. I march to the beat of her drum now, willingly captive. It has to be willingly… if I don’t tell myself that, I have to accept that she’s enslaved me to my desires, have to accept that the woman I’ve thought I was for all these years is a stranger, someone I’ve created because I fear the life God gave me.

Even I know my logic is lacking something, but if I chose this… I can also choose to turn away from it.

I’ve heard about women who unleash hidden desires in the prime of their life. I never thought I’d be one of them.

Hillary’s gaze runs across me, devouring the bare skin lain before her, her eyes burning into me as I try to move closer and am held back by the scarves that wrap around my wrists and ankles. Finally, after what seems like hours of unbearable, delicious torture, she speaks, her voice rolling across me in waves. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah… whatever shall we do with you?”

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, copper spilling across the tip of my tongue as I hold back the “anything” that threatens to escape me, humiliate me with the depths of my unforgiving arousal. I watch as she turns the end of the wire attached to the clamp over and over in her long, strong fingers, moaning at the sudden flash of them rolling across my skin. A fresh flood of heat rushes to my core, and I squirm, rubbing my thighs together; too far gone to be embarrassed by my over-worked state. She's barely even touched me, and already, I can feel my body hurtling toward the edge.

 

I've lost my mind.

 

The smirk that allies on Hillary's face is nothing but predatory, and I wonder briefly why I can't think of her that way. A predator is just something to be conquered, nature to be bent and subgated until it serves humanity, something I know I can reign over.

 

Somehow, for reasons I've never been able to explain, Hillary Clinton has become the exception to all my rules.

 

I glance sideways, trying to read the lettering I saw on the box on the dresser that Hillary still hasn't explained. I asked her about it when I first arrived, but she distracted me with wicked smiles, and a devily glint in those ice-blue eyes that light a fire in my veins. But now, it's looming there, and I don't know what it does, so it's making me nervous. I don't respond well to nerves; they make me angry and scare me in the same breath. And, with Hillary... they drive me wild in other ways, too. In the last two years, this woman has introduced me to things I never would have imagined, let alone have thought I would crave after learning what they are, but I'm still waiting for the thing that's going to push me too far, something that will make me realize that I don't need what my body calls for, that it would be reckless to continue.

 

I long for that day and dread it in equal measure.

 

Following my gaze, Hillary's smile widens, and I feel a shudder low in my torso at the image. “That, my dear, silly woman, is a... learning device.”

 

My brow furrows, deep lines that I know I'll spend a while tracing later, wondering if the added wrinkles are a fair trade for the livewire emotion – no – _feeling_ that races through me when I'm with her.

 

I know I'll decide that they are.

 

A soft, deceptively innocent laugh slides from her lips as she watches the confusion that I know shows on my face, and gosh darnit, even that does things to my body that I can't explain. I don't know why she's taking to turning sex into a learning experience, but heck, it's the most enjoyable class I've ever taken. My memory is much better than people would believe, my knowledge deeper than they'll expect, and I look forward to the day I get to unleash it on the public, impress them with how much I've learned since my rise to national permanence, but, though they're not particularly effective since it's hard to concentrate when your body is being driven to the brink over and over again, a wicked part of me wants to tell Katie Couric or Charles Gibson, or other members of the lamestream media that I learned everything I now know from Hillary Clinton and watch them try to puzzle out when, where and how, knowing that they'll never come close to the truth.

 

What holds me back is the fear that it would put an end to candlestine meetings in the dead of night, weekends spent exploring one anothers' skin at the expense of lies to those closest to us, moments like this where I'm at her mercy, desperate and wanting. We've run some risks with this... thing... between us, probably too many of them, but we've escaped any close calls (those mostly at the State Department, where some of my favorite memories reside) partially   
_because_  
no one expects to so much as   
_see_  
us together. If the photographers start looking... I don't even want to think about it.

 

She trails the end of the cable up my inner thigh, and I whimper, my hips rising without thought, forcing words from between teeth clenched against the onslaught of desire, “But what   
_is_  
it?”

 

“Want to find out?” Her voice is dark and smokey, full of promise, and though I'm still not sure I trust her, my goodness, I really, really do want to know what delicious torture she has in store for me tonight.

 

I turn my head to watch as she damn near sashays up towards my head, somehow feeling the loss of her closeness to my core even though she long stopped touching me with those sinful hands. She slides the adaptor end of the cable into the box, flipping switch once her fingers are clear of the metal. Nothing happens, and I wonder if, maybe, whatever it is isn't actually working.

 

Despite not even knowing what she had planned for me, despite not knowing whether it would even be something I'd enjoy... I feel the disappointment seeping into my bones.

 

She chuckles as the expression on my face reflects the feeling, then murmurs, “Sarah... say nuclear for me.”

 

I don't even think about asking why. “Newcular.” I grimace, knowing I said it wrong, knowing there's nothing I can do about it. It's just a word I can't say. I'm sure even she has some of those.

 

A quick flick of her wrist on one of the dials that adorn the top of the box, and suddenly I'm shuddering, a tingle spreading across my body from the clamp fixed on my nipple, my back arched slightly as my muscles jump. My heart beats faster in response, but I don't feel in my chest. Instead, it's a deep, low throbbing, dampening my thighs with arousal, a long, low moan ripped involuntarily from my throat. “Fuck,” I know I stammer over the word, and as her fingers move over the dial again and the stimulation stops, I collapse back down to the mattress, my first awareness that my body had even lifted off of it in response to the zap of electricity that ran through my veins.

 

I can feel a drop of perspiration traveling down between my breasts, and, as she lowers herself to her knees, leaning over to trace its path with her tongue, I moan once more, uncertain what I want, her tongue on my skin or more of the shocks that lit my nerves on fire, but knowing that I need something, need more. Hillary spends long moments teasing me, the soft pink muscle warm as it explores territory that should be more than familiar to her by now without touching any of the places I need her attention most.

 

And then her mouth is wrapped around my free nipple, hot, wet, supple, and I groan, arching up towards her, wanting so badly to hold her in place, straining against my bonds as she sucks lightly and then pulls away.

 

Retreating to her spot beside the bed, she says, “Kinky little thing, aren't you?”

 

I don't have the will to argue, know that, apparently, she's right, my hips moving to a silent beat as they seek pressure that isn't there to be reached. All I can do is whimper, hope that she takes pity on me. “Please...”

 

She studies me for a long moment, her eyes darkened pools of blue, the iris seeming to melt into her diluted pupils. “What, exactly, does being near Russia do for your foreign policy credentials?”

 

Now, she's just taunting me, and I fight against the urge to rise to the bait, only succeeding in biting my tongue. I feel my eyes roll in response, and barely a second passes before my body is rocked by a thousand little shocks radiating through my skin, tiny pricks of pain that disappear into burning heat, my muscles contracting in response, another flood of arousal settling between my thighs as my world seems charged with need, building and building, waiting for the chance to erupt from me in waves, to discharge in powerful jolts.

 

I'm sobbing with desire when the heat stops rolling through me, feeling emptier than ever before now even that stimulation has gone. I know I'm speaking, and I can't hear the words for the buzzing in my brain, but I'm sure they don't make sense. I can feel it as Hillary traces the line of my hip with her palm, shift into the contact, pleading with her to give me what I need. This is a new level of want, more than anything I've ever known, and I'm sure that a single touch would send me rocketing into the oblivion I need, a summer thunderstorm in the mountains. My breathing is heavy, oxygen hard to come by, a lightheadedness that would almost be disturbing if I were capable of analyzing my reactions. As it is though, all I can do is feel, my lips rolling over her name on repeat.

 

Hillary seems to realize that I'm beyond the point where I could answer questions of any kind, except, maybe what her name is, and I hear her voice, more soothing than I think I've ever heard it before, the sound grounding me. Another quick sharp shock runs across my body and I whimper, feeling the burning in my thighs, the desperate throbbing of the nerve center between my legs, the charge in my body pushing the limits of what I think I can take, and yet, when the electricity is gone, I still need release more than ever in my life.

 

The bed dips slightly as Hillary's weight is added, and then she's above me, skin on mine and I cry out at the perfection of her, the coolness of her body in comparison to the burning need that roils through me like thunder. The pressure of the clip leaves my breast, and is replaced by her tongue, long slow licks that make me press up into her, begging even harder for her fingers inside of me. I feel her laugh against my breasts, the vibrations deepening my desire ever more, and then, finally, blessedly, I feel that talented hand slide into the slickness at my center, her fingers stroking my folds, dipping briefly inside but _just_ too lightly to do anything but break the promise they offer when she moves them away.

 

For a moment, I think she's going to leave me this way, teetering on the edge of heaven, the pressure of her body above me holding me still so I can't even grind up into the contact, and then, she's drawing circles round my clit, fast and tight, and I'm burning up, the force of my orgasm hitting me like lightning, ripping a near-scream from my throat, my muscles careening out of control, and I'm sure that I'm dying but I can't find it in me to care as the ripples roll through me, over and over.

 

Hillary's lips are on my throat as I pant my way back to life, my vision spotted as I open my eyes once more. I can't speak, don't know what I'd say even if I could, but Hillary takes care of that for me.

 

“Maybe next time we'll get through three questions before you quit.”

 

If I had the strength – and the movement – I'd be tempted to slap her for that little jibe, but it's all I can do to keep breathing as her fingers move against me, sliding inside of me, promising more torturous pleasure before the night is over.

 

That's good. I need all the time we can get.

 


End file.
